


More Hair than He Needs

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Autumn, Awkward Flirting, Best Friend Clarke Griffin, Bookstore Owner Wells, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mention of Pagan Religion, witch!bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: Wells isn't quite sold on the autumn aesthetic. Bellamy changes his mind.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Wells Jaha
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	More Hair than He Needs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elle_stone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: Local bookstore owner hates Halloween but when an annoying persistent possible witch blows into town, they may just have to change their mind.
> 
> This... was not supposed to be this long. Oops!
> 
> Title inspired by the poem: Witch-Wife by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

He blows into Wells’ bookstore with the first cold, October breeze, bedraggled and absolutely bad news. Wells tries not to scrunch his nose at the pervasive smell of pumpkin spice as the dark-haired stranger disappears between the crowded shelves.

Clarke looks up from her seat on the floor where she’s surrounded by piles of used romance paperbacks. “What?”

Wells picks up his own decidedly unflavored coffee and takes a long gulp, trying to drown out the spicy aroma. He sets the mug down with more force than necessary, shaking his wooden desk slightly and making Clarke frown.

“Another fall tourist,” he finally grumbles. Clarke’s tight knit brows dissolve into a sympathetic shake of her head as she turns back to her sorting piles.

“You knew they were coming eventually,” she says.

Wells sucks in a deep breath and slowly blows it out, willing his shoulders to relax. “Yeah… I just always hope for a little bit longer.”

He opens the swinging door set in the countertop to let himself out from behind the desk. As he lets the rickety door clap shut, Clarke blinks up at him from the other side. “Do you want me to go see what he needs?”

“No, I got this. I need that box sorted before you leave.” Wells taps his fingers meaningfully on the countertop, nodding sharply towards the hefty cardboard box at Clarke’s hip, still half-full of worn books.

She flashes him a mock salute. “Your word is my command, boss man.” She picks up another dogeared book from the box and waves a hand under the titillating cover art of a half-clad vampire with fangs poised over a slender, blond woman’s neck. “But are you sure you want to miss out on gems like  _ Stake to My Heart _ ?”

Wells rolls his eyes fondly at her. “I’ll take a pass. Romance is your arena.”

Clarke tosses the book into one of her piles. “You know I have another friend you could talk to…”

“No. More. Dates.” Wells puts his hands up pleadingly. “The last one was  _ the _ most embarrassing thing of my life.”

“Okay, okay. I didn’t know that Murphy was using you as an excuse to ditch his other date. You can’t possibly blame that one on me.”

“I can and I will. You’re supposed to filter out stuff like that  _ before _ I get to the restaurant.”

Clarke pouts and pulls out another romance novel, holding it up like a display. “This could be you if you trusted me. Star of  _ An Inconvenient Flame _ .”

“I’ll leave that to you and Raven.” He leans forward conspiratorially as Clarke blushes. “What was that, your third date last night? What was your rule about third dates again?”

“Shut up, or I will throw this book at you.”

Wells chuckles and leaves his best friend muttering under her breath about trust and breaches of confidence.

The morning sun lies in deep, golden pools on the repurposed floor boards, beaming through the narrow glass doors at the front of the store. Wells breathes in the warmth before weaving into the darker clusters of bookshelves farther into the narrow shop. One of the overhead lights flickers as he passes beneath it and he makes a mental note to grab lightbulbs from the hardware store over his lunch break. As the owner and only full-time employee of Ark of the Chronicles, Wells hardly ever has a lunch break that’s truly a break. If it’s not a new donation box that needs sorting, it’s a lightbulb that needs fixing, or a mail order that needs dropped off. Yet the swell of pride he feels every time he turns the key in the door of his quaint little shop on the corner of 3rd and Maple makes every second of work worth it.

He steps around the staircase to the second floor, reaching out instinctively to tilt a wayward spine back into place as he passes. The bookcases fill almost every available foot of floor space, even wrapping around the sides and underside of the staircase. It’s not hard to guess where his autumnal visitor disappeared to though and Wells resignedly turns into the back corner of his shop.

One of the things that put his bookstore on the map was his rather obscure section, Witchcraft, Magic, and the Occult. It started with an enormous donation of witchcraft related books donated by Vera Kane, Arkadia’s resident eccentric, old lady. Wells decided to keep the collection together in one section rather than try sorting them into various other areas and so his famous Occult section was born. He’s not too proud to admit that the draw of the unique collection kept his store afloat the first couple of years, when he was still struggling to stay independent from his father. Not too proud at all. 

Which is why he sets his best customer service smile in place and rounds the last, tight corner to greet his guest.

“Hi, welcome to Ark of the Chronicles. Can I help you find anything in particular?”

The stranger is crouched to browse through the lowest shelf, head tilted disarmingly.

“Maybe.” Voice deep and warm. Hinting at a smile.

For some reason, it  _ is _ disarming and Wells has to blink a few times to gather his customer service persona back together.

“Well, what can I help you with?”

The stranger rises slowly, faded leather jacket crackling slightly with his graceful movement.

“This book is inaccurate.” He places a heavy, hardbound book in Wells’ hand, catching him off guard. Wells blinks at it a few times and then back at his customer.

“ _ The Nine Noble Virtues _ ?” Wells reads the title. “What-”

“ _ Supposed _ Odinistic virtues. Pagan lore.” The stranger taps the cover a few times, disgust creeping through his tone. “Only they’re not actually codified anywhere. Written and spread around by a group of fascist, white-supremacists trying to twist Odinistic values to match their own… ideals.” The way he spits the last word with genuine fire in his voice cuts through Wells’ persona again.

“Oh.. I… I’m sorry.” Wells hugs the book to his chest as if to hide the traitorous title away. “I’ll remove it right away.”

The stranger tips his head again and his unruly, black curls tip over the edges of his ears. Wells thinks absently that he has more hair than he needs. “You don’t have to take my word for it. If you look it up I promise there’s…”

“No, no. I trust you.” Wells waves his fingers a little helplessly towards the overflowing shelves.” I don’t actually claim to be an expert on any of this. I just know how to find and shelf books.”

That hint of a smile is back, decorating the corner of the man’s lips and Wells isn’t sure how he didn’t notice the cascade of freckles sprinkled across the man’s nose before, or the dark, sweet brown of his deep-set eyes.

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

“Not many people can claim to know much about pagan worship. Or witchcraft or the occult. And I’m always happy to fact-check for free.” the customer says. He runs his fingertips along the row of book spines almost reverently. “You have a very impressive collection here.”

“All gifts and donations,” Wells says automatically. There’s something entrancing about the man, something a little too wild about the way his hair falls over the nape of his neck, something glinting invitingly in his confident gaze.

“My name is Bellamy, by the way,” the man says suddenly. He sticks out his hand and Wells fumbles with the heavy volume for a split second as he adjusts to hold out his hand.

“Um… Wells…” he stutters.

Bellamy’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t realize you were the owner.”

“That’s me.” Wells curses inwardly at the clumsy words, not sure why his brain is scrambling in five different directions.

Bellamy only smiles again and there’s that taste of something wild and fresh and free again, glowing around the edges of his sharp jaw and broad shoulders.

“You didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

“Excuse me?”

Bellamy ducks his head with something that looks like silent laughter. “When I walked in. You made a face.”

“I.. umm… shit…”

Bellamy laughs out loud finally and even though it’s just a chuckle, it resonates comfortably over the bookshelves, filling the cold spaces hidden far away from the sunlight.

“Sorry. My sister always tells me I’m too blunt. I was just curious.”

Wells twists the heel of his shoe against the floor as if he can grind it away and fall into the basement. His neck crawls with heat as he wets his lips.

“It’s not you. I… I’m… I get a lot of…  _ tourists _ , this time of year.”

“Tourists?”

Wells wrinkles his nose instinctively. “Social media influencers. The bookshop fall aesthetic is really popular apparently. So October is usually flooded with Instagrammers and the like using my shop for more internet traffic.”

Something about Bellamy’s furrowed brow prompts him to continue spilling his frustration, embarrassment fading away. “They come skipping in here with pumpkin spice lattes and spend half an hour back here taking pictures with books on religions they don’t even understand and then they leave without buying anything. And sometimes leaving empty coffee cups and sticky puddles on the floor too. And don’t even get me started on Halloween… It’s almost like they think there’s going to be literal demons hanging out in here because you know…” Wells waggles his free fingers by his face in a spooky gesture, “...we’re that  _ creepy _ bookstore.”

Bellamy envelopes Wells’ hand suddenly, cutting off his rant. Bellamy’s fingers are a bit rough; calloused, but warm. Wells feels his jaw drop slightly in surprise as Bellamy gently lowers his hand.

“Hey, take it from an actual witch, we’re not all bad.” He lets go and Wells immediately misses his touch. He balls his hand into a fist at his side, resisting the urge to reach for Bellamy’s hand.

“An actual witch, huh?”

Bellamy winks at him. “Though I have to admit, I am partial to a pumpkin spiced latte. Don’t hold it against me.”

Wells’ brain is short-circuiting again. “Right. Of course. No.”

Bellamy laughs again and Wells decides it’s one of his top ten favorite sounds. Maybe top eight.

“Well, if you’re not against having one of us witchy types around, I might be back.” Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest and Wells is absolutely sure that watching someone’s shoulders flex shouldn’t be so fascinating. “I have yet to find another book collection this diverse. It seriously is impressive.”

He should say thank you. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say thank you. But what comes out instead is, “ _ Might _ be back?”

Bellamy meets his eyes and there’s a flash of something that passes between them, heated and promising. Wells can feel it now, the wilderness of something not-quite-normal rolling from Bellamy in waves. October wind and the loneliness of a bare tree in the night and the crackle of autumn fires all wrapped up in brown skin and a black, leather jacket.

Bellamy takes a half-step forward, closing the small distance between them, noses nearly brushing, quivering breath ghosting over Wells’ lips.

His smile twitches knowingly. “Yeah, I might.”

  
  
  


Clarke teases him about his sudden about face when it comes to Halloween decorations and autumnal advertising and even certain strongly scented coffee drinks. But Wells is too happy to care, even when she leaves romance novels scattered across his desktop like some sort of self-congratulatory, smut fairy. He especially doesn’t care when Bellamy comes sweeping in with his daily book list and the taste of otherworldly magic on his lips, stealing his daily kiss from Wells behind the staircase.

Maybe two or three daily kisses. Wells loses count pretty often with how distracted he is, weaving his fingers through those silky curls and curling his fist at the back of Bellamy’s neck just to feel the way his muscles tense.

And maybe when Bellamy winks and grins, he’s casting a tiny spell, one that makes Wells tingle down to the ends of his toes and stirs butterflies in his stomach. Or maybe, just maybe, he might be in love with a witch.


End file.
